Liability
by Ms.GrahamCracker
Summary: A terrifying incident has both Don and Charlie reevaluating Charlie's work for the FBI.


**Disclaimer: I own no part of Numb3rs and on the slim to non-existing chance that I am offered compensation, I will accept no monetary reward for this story.**

**Warnings; none**

**Spoilers; Backscatter, Blowback, Nothing for Money, Breaking Point**

**A/N: This plot bunny came to me after watching "Blowback" and I thought Charlie's defiant declaration to McGowan about throwing Don under a bus was filled with just enough angst that it needed it's own little story. Hope you agree. **

**For FraidyCat – because she likes "a little side of Charlie whumping."**

**Summary; A terrifying incident has both Don and Charlie reevaluating Charlie's work for the FBI.**

**Liability**

**~ byMsGrahamCracker ~**

They had cut his bloody T-shirt off in the emergency exam room. It had been abrupt and unexpected, and he had jerked, reflexively, as they pulled it away from him, leaving him bare chested and feeling fragile and more than a little broken. He had already been shaking - shock, he'd assumed - and the shivering had increased two-fold once he had no barrier between his skin and the frigid room.

There had been hands then, and unknown faces and voices, all touching, looking and talking at a frenzied pace. He tried to close his eyes against the mayhem, but one of the voices kept urging him to keep his eyes open, to stay awake. He had heard Don's voice, once, but hadn't looked at him, hadn't acknowledged his presence. His outrage and anger at his brother's actions an hour before simmered below the shock, vying for dominance, and he knew he couldn't look at him. He heard one of the doctors tell Don to wait outside and when Don left the room, he had lain quietly, letting the hospital staff do what they needed to do.

His shirt had been tossed carelessly onto the pile of blood soaked gauze pads on the floor next to the examination table. It hadn't been his favorite shirt, a birthday gift from his father two years ago, still it had been comfortable and several students had commented that the warm tan color had looked good on him. He had been surprised, then, at the feeling of remorse and sorrow the shirt's demise had generated in him. Maybe that was why he had stared at it, his eyes boring into the light material, stained with his blood, while the ER doctor stitched up the two knife slashes on his arm and chest, and the smaller, deeper and more terrifying cut under his chin, just above his Adam's apple.

When Don had been allowed back into the treatment room, the agent had avoided looking at the bloody shirt on the floor – a rational juxtaposition, he thought – he couldn't stop staring at it and Don couldn't even look at it._ Story of our lives._

The doctor, a middle-age, arrogant, would-rather-be-playing-golf type, wanted to keep him overnight, but, when the doctor could state no medical reason other than observation, Don had gone to bat for him. He knew him - knew he'd be better at home with Dad. After all, Don had grimly assured the doctor, no one was better at observing Charlie than their father.

The doctor had insisted, though, on a few hours of IV fluids to replace the blood loss. They had both acquiesced and the room had soon emptied, leaving him hooked up to various monitors and IV tubes and alone with his brother.

The cold, numbing shock had still been there, dissipating gradually with the help of several warm blankets and the liquid being dripped into his veins, but the anger remained simmering and seething like a witches brew over an ancient fire pit. He had closed his eyes, resting, healing, avoiding. He had been mildly perturbed that Don had remained quiet, just sitting silently by the bed; perturbed, because he could feel his brother's anger, also smoldering, hiding beneath the surface of blatant concern and fear.

A disjointed slide show of the incident that placed them there had flipped through the muddled mess of his mind and he thought, suddenly, of Colby. Before he could give any thought to it, he had asked, "How's Colby?"

Don had startled at the sudden question after such a lengthy silence, then replied in a short, clipped voice, "The shot was justified. He'll be alright. David's with him."

"But, he killed a ... "

"It's his job." Don had snapped.

They had both fallen quiet again for a while, then Don had asked in a softer tone, "Are you alright?"

To his chagrin, he hadn't been able to keep the plaintive, little-boy sound from his voice. "Can you just take me home, now?"

"The doctor will probably be in soon to check on you." Don's answer, spoken harshly again, had not been reassuring and he had settled back, sullen and cross, on the bed.

They had fallen back into a loud and uneasy silence again until the doctor returned, checked the monitors and the chart and signed his release papers.

Someone had brought some green scrubs for him to wear home and he remembered thinking Dad is going to freak out because the top was short sleeved with a deep V neck and all the bandages were clearly visible. _Why don't doctors wear button down shirts with long sleeves – or, at least a turtleneck?_

The nurse had given Don all the discharge instructions for wound care and he had nearly reminded her that he was there, she should talk to him, but it gave Don something to do, something other than scowling and not looking at his brother's blood on the floor.

In the car, Don had asked him if he wanted to go home or if he wanted to go back to the FBI office and give his statement then. "Sometimes it's better to get it over with while everything is fresh in your mind", Don had said, and he had agreed. He wasn't in any pain, the Vicodin they gave him at the hospital had taken care of that, but it wouldn't last forever, so he might as well get it over with. Besides, he didn't want to go home just yet; wasn't ready to face his father – not until he could get cleaned up, find something else to wear, and wash Ortega's blood and brain matter from his hair.

Liz had met them in the bull pen. She had ushered him aside into one of the interrogation rooms and taken his statement. She had been professional and caring and helpful, and he had appreciated her concern, but he had been glad when it was over.

Don had appeared then, as though he had been waiting, lurking in the shadows beyond the cubicles, and had led him here to the locker room. Silently, his brother had helped him cover the bandages with plastic wrap to keep the stitches dry, his touch tender and careful, in stark contrast to his scowl and the hard set of his jaw, then handed him soap and shampoo, gave him two towels, because he knew he liked one for his body and one for his hair, and told him Nikki would be back soon with some different clothes.

He was still shaking and he grumbled when he couldn't seem to untie his shoes. Don leaned over quietly to help. When the laces had been loosened, Don gently pried both shoes off and placed them, along with his socks, on the bench.

He stripped, then, quietly and stepped into the large, empty shower room. He felt inexplicably small in the open room – small and vulnerable. Don didn't have to say that he would keep everyone out – that he would stand guard over him as he tried to wash the horrors of the day down the drain, but he knew, no matter what was between them at the moment, his brother would be at the door when he was finished. He had wondered as he adjusted the water temperature how many times Don had had to stand here, under the hot water, naked and numb, until someone's blood was rinsed away. Did David or Colby stand guard over him? Somehow that struck him as funny and he had choked back a laugh right away, afraid if he laughed too much, he wouldn't be able to stop.

Standing in the shower now, he poured some shampoo into his open hand and stepped under the shower head. The hot water sluiced onto his scalp, finding it's way through the dark curls, over his shoulders, then burning it's way down his body, to disappear down the drain on the floor. It felt unnaturally good.

The two neat row of stitches on his forearm and upper chest pulled a little when he raised his arms to work up a lather and he shuddered. The blood had dried in his hair and his trembling fingers found the clumps, trying to separate them, trying not to think about the small hard lumps he found - didn't want to know what part of Ben Ortega's head they had come from. At that thought, the nausea overwhelmed him and he bent forward, clutching his stomach with one hand, while stuffing his other soapy hand into his mouth, stifling an agonized sob he didn't want Don to hear. It was a mistake. Leaning over like that, he could clearly see the water, running pink and lumpy from him. He watched it swirl around his feet, running between his toes and moving around the drain in slow, dizzying circles, and his hastily eaten breakfast soon joined the blood and matter being sucked down the drain.

Spent, he rested his head against the cold tile, taking several deep breaths.

His system analysis hadn't been rich enough, lacking in vital data and information, but, in retrospect, the reality hadn't been logical, the truth too unbearable to be real, the possibility too inconceivable to give credence to.

Six murders, six lives taken by a killer whose only motivation had been concealing his drug trafficking.

That a fellow law enforcement officer could be guilty of such heinous crimes had been the missing variable. They had been working closely with an agent from the DEA, and that morning, the agent had slipped, said something only the killer would know and Don had been quick to put the pieces together, followed seconds later by his team. Unfortunately, he had been standing closer to the agent and he had suddenly found himself being held by DEA Special Agent Ben Ortega, one arm around his chest, the other holding a knife to his throat.

He could still feel the sharp prick of the knife, piercing the tender skin of his neck and he absently raised his hand to the plastic-covered bandage. It had been terrifying and confusing and he had seen Don and David and Colby, all silently berating themselves for not moving faster – getting to him before Ortega had grabbed him.

He stood under the hot water, shivering, as every scene replayed in his mind; Don trying to negotiate with Ortega - David and Colby moving cautiously into better positions - Don, pushing forward, talking, reasoning, distracting, offering - his own desperate attempt at escape - the pain as the knife slashed at him - Don's yells - then the shot. He and Ortega had fallen together and even before he had had time to discern what had happened, Don had been pulling him away from the dead agent, searching for wounds and trying to determine how much of the blood was his and how much was Ortega's.

He took several more deep breaths, letting the hot water soothe both sore muscles and waring emotions, then he reached forward and turned the water off.

Don was there, waiting in the locker room, as he knew he would be. His brother's hands were trembling as he handed him the clothes Nikki had brought. He recognized the barely repressed anger in his older brother - the thin, tight lips, flushed cheeks, both eyes narrow and dark - and knew Don would not be able to hold off much longer, but he also knew he wouldn't verbally or emotionally attack his younger brother while he was still dripping wet and naked.

He stepped away from Don, placing the clothes on the bench, and finished drying. After sorting through the clean clothing and realizing Nikki hadn't thought of underwear, he pulled the track pants up over his legs. The pants were at least two sizes too big and he pulled the string at the waistline as tight as he could, but when he stood up, they dropped below his waist and hung precariously on his hips. He managed to lace his shoes by himself, grimacing slightly at several small drops of blood on them. He rolled the pant legs up several times to keep from tripping over them and reached for the shirt.

Don waited until he stood up, shrugging into the over-sized dark T-shirt, which nearly slid off both shoulders, before he approached.

"Charlie." His voice was low, seething with barely controlled rage and bewilderment. "Why would you do that?"

He knew what Don meant and just like that his anger, mellowed somewhat by the Vicodin and the hot water, resurfaced. In his mind's eye he could still see his brother approaching Ortega, his hands raised in supplication and surrender, offering the trade. _"Take me instead. I can get you out of here. Let him go. It's me you want. Take me."_

Don was going to exchange himself for him – was going to let that murderous psychopathic drug dealer escape, taking him along, to be killed and dumped in some vacant lot somewhere when Ortega was safely away.

He had been stunned, angrier than he had ever been at his brother. Did he think he would just walk away and let Don do that? Did he really believe that he could let Don sacrifice himself and just go home like nothing had happened? No, that was unacceptable. Absolutely unacceptable – so, he had done what he had to do.

He had waited – waited until both David and Colby had flanked the killer and Don was standing nearly twenty feet away, where he had been told to stop. He had waited until Ortega ordered Don to first drop his gun and kick it aside, then smash his cellphone so they couldn't be tracked by the GPS. He had waited until Don, unarmed and resolved, removed his handcuffs from his belt, as Ortega had demanded, and slipped one on his own left wrist. He had waited until Don was just about to close the remaining cuff, and then, ignoring the knife at his throat, he had thrown his weight backwards, slamming the back of his head into his captor's nose. He had turned in Ortega's hold, trying to snatch the knife away quickly, but the man was quicker and managed to cut him twice before he could grab his hand. They had been struggling for the knife, face to face, when Colby's well-aimed shot to Ortega's head had finished it and everything in his vision had turned red.

Standing here now, looking at Don, the anger at his brother's intended sacrifice made him brave and his big brother's scowl, for once, didn't intimidate him. He shot back, with vehemence, "Why would _you_?"

"What?"

"Don, you were going to just give yourself to him – trade yourself for me." He knew he was shouting, but he didn't care. "Even I know that's not just wrong, it's ... it's ... illogical."

Don, silent for too long now, was shaking his head in protest, his mouth open, his eyes flaring, and he snapped out defensively, "It's my job! I'm trained for situations like that."

"Not to trade places with a hostage," he fired back quickly. "I know that. It's against protocol. It makes it too difficult on the negotiator if the hostage is a fellow officer."

"Well, your move wasn't so smart, either, genius. You could have gotten yourself killed!"

"I couldn't let you sacrifice yourself for me! I couldn't have live with that."

Don raked his fingers through his hair, obviously upset and frustrated. "So," he hissed, "what did you want me to do? It was a judgment call, Charlie. I couldn't ..."

"Why, because I'm your brother?" he demanded. "Does that make it alright?"

Don didn't answer. He turned away, this time raising both hands behind his head, interlocking his fingers over his hair. "Charlie, he had a knife to your throat," Don's angry tone became imploring, nearly pleading with his brother to understand his motivation. "He had already cut you and the blood was running down your neck onto that shirt Dad gave you and I ... I just ... "

They both became quiet, both breathing heavily, both trying to get their emotions back under control.

When he spoke, his voice had lost the anger – was calmer with a certain austerity to it. "Don, am I a liability?"

"A liability?" Don repeated, baffled. "God, Charlie, you're our best asset."

He thought he had his emotions in check, but at his brother's statement, he gasped, involuntarily. "Is that what you were doing this morning - protecting the bureau's best asset?"

Don shook his head, the wretchedness and remorse evident in his tone. "Aw, Charlie, no, that's not what I meant."

Heartened by his brother's reassurance, he persisted. "Well, then explain it to me, because it occurred to me that in some cases, I may be more of a liability than a help - that my very presence puts you in danger."

"What happened today, buddy, was... well, it was an anomaly. I mean, it's not everyday you find out an agent you've known for years was a ruthless killer. It threw us off, some – and yeah, I know I can't promise it can never happen again, but, what I'm trying to say, is, when we go into the field with your equations, it's like having an extra layer of protection. We ... my team and I ... we're better armed, better prepared. You understand, Charlie? We're safer because of you and your numbers."

"Safer! Colby had to kill another agent today because of me."

"An agent who had killed six people!" Don flared again. "Colby had no choice."

Once more, they grew quiet, both thinking and absorbing what each other had said.

Slowly, he walked back to the bench and gathered up his discarded hospital scrubs. He looked around for a place to put the wet towels, but couldn't find one, so he bundled them up and left them on the bench.

Don stood, quietly, watching him. He turned slowly to his older brother and asked, "If I hadn't been there today, if Ortega had grabbed someone else, would you have done the same thing?"

"I can't answer that, Charlie. It wasn't anyone else - it was you."

"And you were worried about me."

"Of course I was worried! I worry every time you consult on a bad case. I worry every time you predict another murder, or locate a meth house, or unscramble an encrypted code that leads us to some crazy terrorists who plan to blow-up LA. Anyone of them can seek you out for revenge. I have nightmares, buddy, that they find you and ..."

He reached out for Don's arm and squeezed gently, reassuringly. "So, if I wasn't helping you on this case ... " His voice trailed off and he found himself unable to finish the thought.

"What are you saying, Charlie?" Don asked, tentatively. "Do you want to stop consulting for the FBI? Do you want to stop working with me, 'cause, I gotta tell you, after the Russian mob thing and the Bonnie Parks kidnapping I kind of felt the same way. And now this... "

"Would it make you safer?"

"Me? Charlie, I'm thinking you'd be safer."

"I told McGowan I would not throw you under a bus and I meant it. If me being here, working with you, puts you in any kind of danger, then, yeah, I think it's time I go back to the classroom and leave the crime solving to you."

Don stared at him, silent and unmoving.

His brother's silence unnerved him and he took a few steps towards him. "Don, Dad and I know your job is dangerous. It's just that I don't ever want to be the _reason _you get hurt."

He was surprised when Don smiled – a sad, grim, wistful smile that said _this isn't the way it's suppose_ _to be_. "We just can't catch a break, can we, buddy? I mean, we finally find something we are good at together and we still can't make it work."

It was rhetorical and he didn't bother to answer, then Don spoke again, slowly, his voice low and unsure. "That session with Bradford - you said you loved working with me. Why?"

For a minute, he stared back at Don, not sure how his revelation would affect his brother. He swallowed, glanced down at his feet, then quickly, before he lost his nerve, looked up and said. "I told Dad it's because you let me hang out with you." He hated the pain and guilt that clouded Don's eyes, but, he pressed on. "I don't think that's all of it, though. We're _are_ good at it – I think we make a difference."

The corners of Don's mouth turned up slowly and he smiled, still sad and wistful. "So," he asked, softly, "where does that leave us?"

The epiphany struck him with chrystal clarity at Don's question and he knew exactly where it left them; the same place they had been since he had dragged his older brother to the back door and explained pattern distribution and point of origin involving the water sprinkler. He blinked. The anger was long gone, replaced by an undeniable and irrefutable acceptance that this was how it had always been between them. He didn't just _like_ helping Don – he _needed_ to be part of Don's life – and, if this was the best way for them to connect – well, then, he could accept that, too.

"Where we have always been." he whispered, then, because he had made his decision, he added, emphatically, "As long as I can help you, I will."

"And as long as your consulting," Don added, "I'll worry."

They stood, face to face, in an classic Eppes brothers stand off. There was no satisfactory or finite solution – they each knew it. It was their own personal P vs NP – perpetual and unsolvable.

"So, you know," He said, carefully breaking the silence, "there's something more important we have to worry about." When Don frowned in confusion, he supplied, "Dad."

Don snorted, tilting his head back a little in amusement. "Hey, I handled that pompous doctor, I think I can handle Dad," he announced with more bravado than he felt.

"Yeah, well, you let me know how that works out for you." He said, starting for the door, "I'm going home and going to bed."

"Oh, no you don't." Don's half-hearted protests followed him as they left the locker room.

"No, really," He tried again, "I'm feeling kinda shaky here. Post traumatic thing, you know."

"You know, as well as I do, the minute Dad sees you, he's going to go all Jewish mother on you. You're going to need my help to keep him from wrapping you in that cocoon he keeps in the closet."

His steps faltered at his brother's words. He stopped and studied Don's irritatingly confident expression. "Alright," he conceded, "we face him together, give him a sterilized version of what happened and tell him the doctor said some homemade chicken noodle soup would be good for me. That'll keep him in the kitchen for awhile."

"Works for me, bro - supper and manipulation."

They left the locker room and headed for the elevator bay. "There is one thing I need your help with." Don said, seriously.

Eager, as always, he turned quickly towards his older brother. "What's that?"

"Remind me to never send Nikki after clean clothes again. You look ridiculous."

**The End**


End file.
